


You Say That I'm Better; Why Don't I Feel Better?

by CookieCatSU



Series: Welcome to the Happy Habitat! (Sans the Habitat) [3]
Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Clinical Settings, Fluff, Habit struggles through therapy, Hurt/Comfort, Kamal and Habit are dads, Kamal straight up adopts Putunia as his own, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Putunia is babey, The Original Character is Habit's therapist, struggles, this is all Post-Habitat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26407432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Dr. Habit knows he's ill. He's known for most of his life. He's sick, demented, broken.Despite all that, life goes on, anyway. Boris goes on.Or; Boris Habit therapies, and this time, he's got a great support system behind him the whole way.
Relationships: Dr. Boris Habit & Putunia Mollar, Kamal Bora & Putunia Mollar, Kamal Bora/Dr. Boris Habit
Series: Welcome to the Happy Habitat! (Sans the Habitat) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919548
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	You Say That I'm Better; Why Don't I Feel Better?

Dr. Habit feels invincible. He feels like he can do anything! The whole world is at his fingertips, and the moon and the stars, and he knows if he just jumps high enough he could snatch the galaxy in his hands. He feels so invigorated! He's getting so much done!

He grabs as much paper out of the arts and crafts bin as will fit in his hands, snatching up a fist full of markers. And he starts writing (so much to do, so much to do!). The Habitat needs decor, a bright warm papery array of furnishing to liven the place up, and Habit will provide! Boris jumps back up from his desk, trips over a stool he (knocked over? No. No), and grabs more paper from the bin. He runs back to his desk, cackling, pink marker in his mouth, orange marker flying across the page.

Blur, blur, everything's a blur, (so much to do! So much to be done! They need more, more, more!). He crosses something out, fills something else in. His hand moves off the page, bright marks all over his desk, (so much to do! No time to stop!).

"Boris, what are you doing?" Kamal rushes toward him, snatching his hand up with a vengeance.

Dr. Habit blinks. He's staring at posters, covered in grinning faces and half scribbled declarations penned in a shaking hand. He wrote this. Toward the bottom, there are frowning faces with missing teeth and red marks and little drawings of teeth laying all over. He wrote that too.

Kamal takes the marker from him, staring large eyed at the half garbled sentences scrawled all over his desk. Habit let's him.

Habit has no idea why he finds himself crying.

* * *

It's a lot to unpack. Too much, almost.

Dr. Habit knows he's ill. He's known for most of his life. He's sick, demented, _broken_. There's some switch that never got flipped on, or a button that never should have been pushed, or something along those lines. Point is, there's something wrong with Boris, something wrong in his noggin, and he knows that.

Knowing is believing, but it isn't understanding. He doesn't actually know _what's_ wrong, exactly. He never has.

He knows what he's been told.

He knows his father always thought he'd been too soft (not soft enough) and his mother always said he'd been too hard headed, and too quick to cry, and Martha was convinced he'd smiled too much and too wide, and his teachers always thought he couldn't pay attention long enough, and _why won't you just sit still?_

Everyone seemed to think they knew what was wrong with him, but Boris… Boris is still puzzling it out. He's still puzzling himself out.

"He pushed me. Said I needed to toughen up. I get it. I was a difficult boy, wasn't I?"

"Pause right there, please" His therapist says, in that quiet voice that always leaves Boris wondering if he's doing this right, if he's saying the right things, "Can you elaborate there? What exactly did your father mean by that?"

"He thought I was week"

"How did that make you feel?" He pushes his round reading glasses up his nose. They're bright and shiny, metallic gold rimmed, and Boris very much wants to snatch them off his face so he can inspect them. Anything, so he doesn't have to think about this.

His mother's china tea set crashes to the floor with an awful screeching wail (or was it a ding, or a ring, or just a crash? Crash, crash, crash?), and there's shouting, loud rising shouting that slams like a tidal wave, loud, loud, loud and demonstrative as the tea set crash, crash, crash (was it that loud? Louder? Because he can't get it out of his head, even when he shakes it until all the water spills out and yanks the red from beneath) as he rushes to his room and slams the door behind him.

The gold rims shine just like the golden tea set platter had. He wants it.

He controls the impulse though. He reminds himself of what Kamal told him: that that was weird, and an invasion of personal space, and just like Boris needed his personal bubble (at least 3 feet, unless it was someone he knew), so did everyone else. Also, he was at therapy for a reason, and it was not to play with glasses, no matter how _shiny_ they were.

He was here to get better. Better. Better.

He wants to be better!

Dr. Habit makes a little huffy noise in his throat, crossing his arms over his chest, kicking his legs a couple times as he sits up a little straighter. He slouches over after a moment, though.

"Bad. Very bad" He says, because it's all he can muster. It's clipped, short, but it's unbelievably honest, and his tongue is heavy like lead as soon as he says it. 

He suddenly wants to be anywhere else but here, sitting in this floral print chair. The sunlight shining through the many shuttered windows set throughout the office had made for an inviting, if somewhat formal atmosphere. Now, nothing can rival the onset of suffocating claustrophobia bearing down upon him. He wants home. He wants Kamal.

He hunkers in and stares at the floor.

His therapist scribbles something down on his clipboard.

"It upset you…" He says, "and now I see you're rationalizing his actions, so it's a little easier to digest, correct?"

"No" Boris scowls, "I have not lied. Everything I've said is truthful"

His therapist frowns a little. He clicks his pen, clears his throat, and tries from a different angle. "I noticed you said you were a 'very difficult boy'? Would you like to discuss what you meant by that?"

Boris' cheek stings. His lip stings. He reaches his hand to press it to his upper lip, wincing. His mouth is thick with blood, red, iron-y, rust rust rust. He can see the teeth on the floor, and his father's shadow towers over him, tall, big, all encompassing. All the light drains from the room, and he is suddenly trapped. He wants to scream.

"No"

"I'm going to need you to work with me, Mr. Habit" The therapist says with a heavy, languid sigh. "I can't help you, if you won't help me help you"

Habit is silent.

His therapist clicks his tongue. Clicks his pen. "How about the diary entries? Are you able to discuss those?"

His hand lands on his mother's, which trembles, so shaky the bottle in her hand nearly crashes to the table. His diary entries are spread across the table, wet with fingerprints and vodka. A picture of him in dark blue trousers and rain boots sits amongst the clutter. She glances at him with a look of pure disgust. 

_How could you do this?_ She howls, and she grabs the first thing her hand settles on and-

"No. No. No"

"You're being very avoidant Boris. Is there a reason behind that?"

Boris huffs, and throws himself forward, chin in his hands. At this point, he just wants to be away. Anywhere, away.

He can hear their voices, ping, ping, pinging. They keep getting louder. Louder.

"No… I don't know. Maybe"

His therapist clicks his pen again, and scribbles something else on his clipboard. Boris wants his clipboard. He wants to know what he could possibly be writing. He wants the pen too. It's a nice shade of sky blue.

He could snatch it right out of his hands but, but that'd be rude. Kamal would not approve.

"I know we have-" His therapist glances down at his watch, "ten more minutes, but maybe we should cut this session a little short today, hmmm? We've made as much progress as it seems we're going to make"

Boris nods, ignoring the flash of disappointment in his therapist voice, and in his own heart.

By the end of it all, Boris just feels drained, and he's ready to go _home_.

He wants Kamal. He wants his Lily. He'd wanted his teeth too, but he hadn't been able to keep those, had he? He slides his tongue over the gaps in his teeth and tries not to be too disgusted.

"You have someone to get you?" His therapist asks, eyebrow raised.

Boris nods, pushing himself off the futon with a quick shake of his head (gotta clear the clutter), "Yes. Kamal is coming to pick me up"

"Would you like to wait outside?"

"Yes" Boris exchanges pleasantries, goodbyes and salutations, and then lets himself out so he can wait for Kamal to arrive, outside of the office.

It's a long, unpleasant wait.

* * *

"I do not like that man" Dr. Habit says with a frustrated huff, on the ride back home (Kamal was driving. Habit still hadn't gotten his license back after the… the incident), arms crossed once more, "He is very mean"

Kamal gives a understanding (pitying) and perhaps sad, smile, "I know, hun, it's hard"

 _It's good for you_. Kamal doesn't say it, but Habit knows he's thinking it. Habit knows that, of course. He knows it's good for him… but there's lots of things that are good for him, like _Aesperagus_ , and that doesn't mean he likes them!

Habit gives a bedraggled sigh, throwing his hands on Kamal's shoulders, with big wide puppy dog eyes. "Can't you do my therapy cessions, like you removed my extra toothies? Please?"

Kamal offers a fond little smile that warms Boris' heart. He laughs softly, amused by his hubbie's antics, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Boris, but I'm _not_ a therapist. I don't have the certification, and I wouldn't even know where to start if I was. You need someone who's qualified and, you know, actually knows what they're doing"

Habit lays his head on his shoulder from the passenger seat, totally unconcerned by the way the center console digs into his side.

"You can do anything you dream of, my Lily" 

"I'm flattered! Really, but no. If you really don't like Dr. Garrick, we can find you a new therapist"

"I really don't"

"Well... are you doing better?" Kamal asks, looking away from the road briefly (not too long. Doing that even for a second made him nervous, Habit knew). It was important, then. Kamal thought this was important.

"Yes, I am," Habit says, even though he's not. He's not. He's not doing any better. 

He doesn't _feel_ any better.

It isn't working, but it's supposed, and it has to, and it's going to. It has to.

He doesn't admit that the only time he ever really feels better is when he curls up with Kamal in his arms, time's like now, when he can gaze at him, with the sunlight through the car window gleaming against his skin, wavy black hair falling in his eye. That's not how it's supposed to work. That's not going to make Kamal feel better.

It _has to work._

"Then you should keep going? Give it a chance?" Kamal suggests, and the look in his eyes is so hopeful. Boris doesn't want to string him on, but he doesn't want to kill that hope. Kamal deserves that hope (that and more and the whole world… he deserves more than, more than _him._ A better him, perhaps).

"Yes. I should" Boris replies with an affirming nod, and a gap-toothed, wonky smile.

The next session will help, he's sure (just so long as he ignores the pits and the valleys, ups and downs, which seemed to come no matter what). 

It will. It's gotta. 

That's how it worked, wasn't it?

* * *

Habit is surprised that Putunia is not immediately terrified of him. It's a good kind of surprise. That same surprise that he felt when Flower Kid offered that kiss to him: surprise, palpable as the thick gas hanging in the air, mixed with elation, and a little twinge of heavy, rock solid guilt. Guilt, because he'd been the one to give them a reason to _be_ afraid.

Just like his father. God. Boris really is terrible, isn't he? Awful. He has so much to atone for.

Which is why he immediately drops to one knee as soon as he sees the little girl, standing just a few feet past the entryway to Kamal's house, trying to be as non-intimidating as he can possibly be. Which is hard, for a 7 ft. tall man, especially one who may have also tried, unsuccessfully at least, to snatch all of the teeth out of her mouth. That made for a really bad first, or second, or fifth impression. Just, a really bad impression, period.

Kamal gives a half smile, half grimace, which he tries desperately to sell off as encouraging. He hadn't expected Habit to drop by, which was probably why he had not warned him Putunia would be there, nor had he sent Putunia off somewhere so they could be alone. Instead they got this. The worst possible scenario of all three.

Putunia stares at Habit with her little arms crossed, eyes squinted, feet planted firm on the wooden floor. Her boxing glove is, interestingly, not hidden whatsoever. She's positioned herself to make sure the whole room can see it.

Habit swallows with discomfort.

"Look Putunia, It's Dr. Habit" Kamal crouches, taps the girl on the shoulder. His voice is quiet, "Do you remember him?"

"Yeah. The green meanie!" She scowls, "What is he doing here?"

Boris turns away, face red hot with embarrassment. His hand fidgets at his side, and he just barely manages to stop himself from scraping it through his hair. He deserves this. (He deserves her ire, doesn't he?).

Kamal looks first at Habit, who looks like he's about to start sweating, and then to Putunia, who's glaring rather suspiciously, and smiles awkwardly.

"He's your dad's friend, sweetpea" Kamal replies, "We're really good friends"

Putunia looks unconvinced. Her face screws up.

"But didn't he hurt you?" She shouts.

Dr. Habit looks away completely. Shame wells up in his chest. Searing. Like teeth in his lungs. 

Kamal looks very uncomfortable.

"No, no, sweetie. Well, maybe… a little, but, we've both moved on from that, okay? I'm not hurt, okay?" Kamal sighs, "If I let you check for yourself, will that convince you?"

She nods quickly. He leans down, gently picks up her maroon little hands, and places them to his chest, right where his heartbeat rests. She smiles, bright and a little too large for her face, when she feels the beat through his cotton shirt. She taps her index finger a couple times to the rhythm, eyes lit up like stars, just as Kamal knew they would.

He gently grabs her hand again, after a moment, a warm smile spread across his face.

"Are you reassured now? Dad isn't dying"

"Yea" Putunia nods with a flurry of black hair, "But I'm still not convinced about him" She points at Habit with a frown, "He might be a baddie in disguise"

Habit coughs awkwardly, staring painfully hard at the floor.

Kamal gives him a sympathetic glance. The wheels in his head start turning. He turns back to Putunia with a satisfied smirk.

"Well, what if we keep him for dinner, huh? Whole hour together, with forks and knives and everything? And if he doesn't do anything bad that whole time, then you'll know he's good?"

Putunia's eyes get bright, and she squeals in excitement, "Yeah, okay!" She agrees wholeheartedly, probably for no other reason than the fact that she loves company, "But I still reserve judgement on him!"

"Fair" Kamal says with a reasonable nod. Then he grabs her by the armpits and places her on his shoulders. She squeals in delight, shouting about piggy back rides all the while.

Kamal gives Habit a wink as he passes him, pigtailed little girl in tow. Habit gives the biggest smile he can muster (which is admittedly quite small), and follows them into the kitchen.  
  


* * *

"Are you okay?" Kamal whispers into his hair. Boris inhales a deep breath, still raking his hand through his hair, sharp claws scraping hard enough to draw blood. Wet hot tears stream down his face. He stops the movement of his hand, once he realizes what he's doing, and instead starts to wipe the tears from the bottoms of his eyelids.

"Yes. She.. she was right, Kamal"

Kamal shakes his head. "No, she wasn't"

"How so?"

"She's unaware of some details" Kamal says softly, and he presses a kiss to his forehead, sweet and tender, and… things are a little better.

Habit feels a little better.

"You'd never hurt me. Not on purpose. So stop questionin' yourself, alright?"

"I'll try," Habit replies. It's the best he can do.

* * *

Putunia gives Dr. Habit a long, withering look.

"We've only got each uther. No one else is gunna help us out" Putunia shivers, "Only heroes like me help people, and there aren't many of us out there"

"I'm the only one he's got" Putunia says loudly, and she looks deathly serious, "So I've got to protect him"

"You don't have to protect him from me" Habit says, carefully, "I'm not the enimy. I want to keep him safe as much as you"

Putunia considers that, with a loud, long hum. Finally, she unclasps her punching glove, ripping the velcro wrapped around her wrist, apart. Habit's lips part, as he stares in bewilderment.

She offers him the glove, once it's off her hand.

"You'll need something like this" She says, and she hands it to him.

He takes it. It's tiny in his huge, clawed hands, the edge of it only coming out to his first finger joints, because her tiny, seven year old hands are so much smaller than his, but none of that matters.

It's the thought that counts, and it's such a sweet thought.

He gives a watery smile, and his eyes spring with tears. He wipes a tear away and manages a heartfelt thanks.

"I appreciate this, so much… but I must return this. It belongs to you"

He hands the glove back. Putunia takes it back, cradling it in her lap.

"We'll get you your own" She says, after a few moments of silence.

Habit grins, and nods. 

"I'd like that, very much"

* * *

Therapy did not go well today. Boris feels tender, tender in the ribs, and around the abdomen, and he feels like he can't really breathe. His therapist says it's all in his head, but even now that he's armed with that knowledge, it isn't any easier to adjust. He still feels really tired, so _tired_ , and achy and snappish.

He can't stop jumping at every shadow he sees, and honestly, he's just sick of it. When he gets to the bathroom door and it sticks, like it always does, he just wants to rip it off its hinges he's so angry. He restrains himself, completes his breathing exercises just like Kamal had shown him, (in for 4, hold 7, exhale for 8), and manages to get into the bathroom without much fanfare.

Then he opens the medicine cabinet, reaches to grab his medicine and it's… not there. The bottle is missing. He rifles through the whole cabinet, to make sure he didn't put it in the wrong spot. Then he searches the bathroom to make sure he didn't misplace it somewhere. By the time he looks behind the shower curtain for the second time, he's starting to panic.

"Kamal? Lily? Where is my medi-cine? Have you moved it?"

He hears Kamal shouting, and rushes out of the bathroom.

"Kamal?" He pauses, when he gets to the living room, and he sees the scene before him. Kamal is reaching up toward the top of the fridge, where Putunia is seated, uncapped bottle clutched in her hands.

It'd almost be a funny scene, with Kamal up on his tippy toes, struggling to reach the top of the fridge, looking like he's about to fall over, if he also didn't look so awfully _concerned._

"Putunia come down from there this instant!" Kamal squawks, "And put that down!"

"Nuh uh" She responds eloquently.

"Oh, Boris, help please-"

"Is that-?"

"Yes it is"

Putunia lights up as soon as she sees Boris.

"Oh Doc, can I have some of this candy, please? Dad won't let me have it"

She points at the uncapped bottle of what is, indeed, Boris' missing medication. Concern blooms, and Boris quickly moves to scoop her up off the fridge. It's easy, with his extra height. Putunia huffs, but doesn't struggle against him.

"You can have as much candy as you want, Tulip" Habit says softly, and he cradles her in his arms, reaching for the bottle, "But that is not candy. That is my medi-cation"

She blinks at him. "Me-medication? Like, for the snifflies"

Habit nods, "Yes, but it's for when the snifflies are inside" He points at his forehead, "instead of outside"

"That makes sense" She says, and then she pulls a face, "they sound real important"

Habit nods again, a little harder this time. "Yes, yes, they are very important. They keep me sniffle free" He imitates a cough to make his point. She giggles, and he can't help but grin wide, "Can I have them back?"

She hands him the bottle, which he wraps in his long fingered grip.

"Sniffle free is good" She says, like she's made some new discovery.

Habit laughs. His chest hurts still, but it's a different hurt. Not as bad, maybe.

"Yes, sniffles are very bad. That's why we must destroy them"

She's out of his arms, boxing glove at the ready, before anyone can even blink an eye. Habit chases after her, and they play chase for most of the afternoon.

Habit sneaks off to the bathroom, sometime that evening, to take his medication. Putunia hardly notices his absence. Kamal watches him as he reenters the room, and there's a silent question on his face.

_All good?_

Habit nods, and gives a shaky thumbs up.

_All good!_

* * *

Putunia is totally unfazed by his shadow form. It takes her a moment to recognize him, what, with his dotty orange eyes and blue teeth and neon smile, but once she realizes it's him, she slots herself in his side like she belongs there.

He's crying, and she seems to have decided she's having none of that.

"You match me" She pulls her mouth open with her thumbs, tongue pressed between her teeth, missing teeth on full display. Habit can identify exactly which ones are missing, and is already doing so automatically, like muscle memory. He stops himself, yanks himself up short, because it doesn't matter. It's obsessive, manic. He doesn't need to do that. 

He doesn't want to.

"We do match" Habit replies, with a hesitant smile. A tiny sliver of teeth can be seen. The gaps are really obvious in the dark, especially next to the neon glow.

"Mine hurt sometimes too" Putunia adds, "Like when I drink something really hot, or really cold, like ice cream. And sometimes it just stings, just 'cause"

"Yes, ise cream is the wurst. Straws help"

"Ice cream is the best" Putunia whines, and she punches him in the arm.

"Can you get me one of those windy, silly straws?" Putunia asks, once she settles down.

Boris hums, pretending to consider for a long time. "Yes"

"A red one, with lottsa twists and turns!"

"Got it, Tulip"

* * *

"Are you okay?" Putunia bellows, a little too loud considering she's right in his ear.

 _Not yet._ He's getting there. 

He shifts on his heels, wiping his tangerine gardening gloves on his pants. The gardenias are looking a little sad, aww. He reaches to poke one of the purple blooms, which is leaning a little, looking parched.

His little babies are thirsty, aren't they?

"Yes, I will be fine, little molar" He says, reassuringly, as he snatches up the watering can.

Putunia, covered to the elbows in dirt (she'd been worm fishing earlier, before Dr. Habit had called her over to help him), nods. "So you're done being all evil?"

"Yes" He smirks, before tackling her, "Or am I?"

Putunia squeals, and reaches to grab her glove, tone bright with laughter, "Prepare to fight, evil doer!"

* * *

Dr. Garrick gazes up with surprise, eyebrows raised when he notices he's no longer alone in his office. Boris stands across from the futon, and Kamal is just entering, closing the door gently behind him.

"You're early?" Garrick observes with a questioning look.

Boris nods hesitantly, and gives a nervous smile. Kamal comes over, placing his hand to Boris' forearm, and Boris relaxes, somewhat.

"I'm… I'm reddy to start"

"Well, okay. Please take a seat. We'll begin with what happened today"

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Habit as bipolar, manic depressive to be specific, and I have no idea if that's made clear in this piece, but I just wanted to put that out there.


End file.
